Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (6 page)

‘We believe so, we pray so.’

She patted the arm of the recliner. ‘This th’ prayer chair, you know.’

‘His name’s Henry. Henry Winchester.’

‘A fine name,’ she said. ‘I’ll pray for Henry an’ Peggy and you th’ same. I’m glad you got a brother, honey, real glad.’

‘Thank you.’ He had hung on to Miss Sadie; he was hanging on to Louella. All that they were he would never have again. He remembered what Peggy told him her mother had said after the cruel loss of her young son.
All us got is us.

‘This is the prayer stool,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘We need to talk about you now.’

•   •   •

H
E
MADE
A
RIGHT
off the elevator, hoping to connect with Dooley’s mother, Pauline. She was dining room coordinator at Hope House, and a darned good one.

Pauline’s years of alcohol addiction had been damaging in the extreme. Sammy was probably six or seven when she deserted four of her five children, taking only her son Pooh with her. Her husband, Clyde, in many ways more dysfunctional than Pauline, had taken Sammy. Kenny had been traded by his mother to a complete stranger for a gallon of whisky, a move which, in the end, was a very good
thing. Jessie, the youngest, had been abducted by a psycho cousin of Pauline’s, and Dooley ended up on the rectory doorstep at age eleven. He had driven to Lakeland with Cynthia and Pauline a few years back to recover Jessie, and thus most of the worst scenarios, he hoped, had played out for the Barlowes. And thank God, there had been healing in Pauline’s new life as a believer—she had married Buck Leeper, also a recovering alcoholic, and they seemed to be coming along better than expected, with Jessie and Pooh doing well in Mitford School. Dooley would see his mother on occasion, but was reserved; Kenny and Sammy refused to see her at all.

‘Father!’ she said, standing from her desk in the small office. The tears began. There were nearly always tears when they met. He gave her a hug and handed over his handkerchief.

‘How are you?’ he said.

She smiled a little, nodded. ‘God is good.’

‘I’ve noticed that myself. And Buck?’

‘The best. He’s doing well.’

‘Any work?’

‘Comes and goes.’

‘Feast or famine,’ he said of the construction business in general.

‘How is Sammy?’

‘Hurting.’ He never veiled the truth with her if he could help it.

She nodded, wiped her eyes with the handkerchief.

‘And Kenny is a wonderful young man. The couple he ended up with—it was a blessing, as you know.’

‘So thankful.’

‘Dooley will be home toward the end of October, I’m hoping we can arrange something, break bread together.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘And Sammy—back to Sammy. When it comes to shooting pool, he’s a genius. All we have to do is figure out how to channel genius.’

She looked away from him. ‘One day . . .’

‘Yes, oh, yes, definitely. One day.’ One day there would be an end to the hurting. There had to be an end to it.

•   •   •

T
HEY
WALKED
OUT
with Barnabas to the flower borders, carrying mugs of Earl Grey.

His wife looked west over the trees; a breeze stirred her hair, the sleeves of her blouse. ‘’T will be a lovely sunset,’ she said.

Hydrangeas blooming, digitalis thriving, black mulch from the pile where the garage once stood. Harley had done a fine job of keeping things in order.

‘I told Louella about Henry.’

‘Wonderful.’

He cleared his throat and made the announcement in what she called his Old Testament voice. ‘I’m wearing a suit tomorrow night.’

She laughed, put her arm around him. If he never wore a tux again, it would be too soon.

‘Forgive me for pushing you to the brink?’ she said.

‘Always.’

‘Bookends?’

‘Always.’

‘Puny left you a wonderful salmon and pasta dish, but I’m hungry for liver and onions tonight, will you have some? It might be fun just to
try
it, darling.’

‘Never,’ he said.

A
t first light, he got up and sat on the floor by his dog and buried his hand in the bristly coat and prayed, silent.

Almighty God, whose Son our Savior Jesus Christ was lifted high upon the cross that he might draw the whole world unto himself: Mercifully grant that we, who glory in the mystery of our redemption, may have grace to take up our cross and follow him; who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, in glory everlasting.

His dog rolled on his side and looked up—it was that slow, lingering look that spoke volumes could he but read them. He thought the look might be saying, It’s okay, it’s fine down here; I don’t mind, you can stop feeling guilty now.

•   •   •

‘H
EY
, D
AD
.’

‘Hey, yourself.’ Always the unabashed joy of hearing,
Hey, Dad
.

‘What’s up?’

‘Off to the doctor. Hoppy’s retired, as you know, so it’s Wilson these days. How about you?’

‘Killed,’ said Dooley.

Midterms. ‘Hang in.’

Dooley laughed. ‘Is that the best you can do? Hang in?’

‘It works, buddy, it works. I’m praying. Don’t worry about anything.’

Dooley was doing well in school. Long haul that it would be, the boy was keeping his eye on the ball of having a successful country vet practice, maybe raising a few cattle.

He remembered bearing down hard on the books, going for the high marks and professorial praise, believing he would no longer be a shadow in his father’s eyes, but a viable being pumping real blood and real sweat and hitting the mark.

‘How was Hoppy’s retirement party?’ asked Dooley.

‘A little tearful here and there. Hoppy’s been good medicine for us, we’ll miss him keenly.’

‘Lace said you told the Uncle Billy joke.’

‘They asked me to say a few words. Uncle Billy’s still bringing the house down. Lace was a great surprise, by the way, didn’t know she could make it. A lot of people noticed the ring.’

A long pause. No information forthcoming.

‘She denied that it was an engagement ring,’ he said, assuring Dooley of her discretion. ‘I guess friendship rings can look a lot like engagement rings.’

‘Maybe,’ said Dooley.

‘Big doin’s down here for your October weekends. We look forward to seeing her midmonth, and you on the twenty-sixth.’

‘Can’t wait. When do the guys come home? I can’t get through to Kenny or Harley’s cell; I guess they’re pretty much in the boonies.’

‘Miss Pringle arrived this morning from Boston, she says Harley and your brothers will be here tomorrow evening. We’re loading up on ground sirloin and buns.’

‘We can talk about Kenny when I get home?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘About the college business.’

‘And maybe figure out something for Sammy.’ Sammy the willful, Sammy the shark, Sammy who would not be tethered or tamed. He loved Dooley’s younger brother but couldn’t manage him, and maybe that was a good thing—or maybe not.

•   •   •

‘T
HERE
WE
WERE
, two of three misfits who didn’t show up as penguins. Deep breath.’

‘Any man can be roped, Doctor, but not every man tied.’

‘I was just out of the shower when the call came—had to get to the hospital and yank an appendix, or else. Long story short, too late to go home and don the tux—deep breath—wife already at the club and couldn’t bring it by the hospital. So—into a clean set of scrubs and off to the revelry.’

‘You were the envy of every man there.’

‘Who was the other fellow out of uniform? I’ve seen him around, but can’t remember his name.’

‘Omer Cunningham, our former mayor’s brother-in-law. He’s flown Hoppy in and out of a few tight spots in these mountains, though his aircraft is hardly suited to the job. The poor man’s helicopter, he calls it.’

‘A character,’ said Wilson.

‘Great guy. ’Nam vet. I’ve been up with him a couple of times. Flies a ragwing taildragger.’

His doctor sat on a rolling stool, palpated his feet and legs.

‘Greek to me. Was that a pair of overalls he was wearing? I’m a city boy, Father, we don’t know these things.’

‘Overalls with a hammer-hanger, as I recall. Which city?’

‘Born in Boston, moved to New Haven young enough to lose the broad
a
. Exercise?’

‘Just starting to run again after a trip with my wife. Two miles now and then, I’ll do better.’

‘Ireland, wasn’t it?’

‘County Sligo.’

‘The Wilsons populated a good bit of the Eire. My set came over from Tyrone.’ His doctor looked up. ‘You had a rough time a couple of years back. Any depression these days?’

‘Nobody will let me be depressed,’ he said. ‘I have two women watching me like hawks. Of course, there was that moment in front of the mirror a few days back. That was pretty depressing.’

‘Why?’

‘Obviously over the line by ten pounds, maybe twelve.’

‘Let’s check it.’

He stepped out of his loafers and pulled off his watch, vain soul that he was; Wilson popped him on the scales.
Miserere nobis
. One seventy-nine.

He was nearly always 165 on Hoppy’s scale, but this was obviously not Hoppy’s scale. This thing had big red numbers and was digital.

‘Who changed this scale?’ he said.

‘This is my scale.’

‘What was the matter with Hoppy’s scale? It could have stayed right here.’

‘Dr. Harper took his scale with him, carried it home on my golf cart. He’s fond of it, it weighs him four pounds lighter.’

There was professionalism for you. So if he had weighed 165 on Hoppy’s scale, plus the four Hoppy had cheated him out of, that was 169, and so he had, indeed, gained ten pounds since his last visit—if Wilson’s scale was accurate.

‘Is this scale accurate?’

‘On the money.’

He stepped off the thing. ‘There you have it, then, Doctor—the depression you were asking about.’

Nurse Kennedy handed him a prescription on the way out. He eyed it, nonplussed, and handed it back. ‘What does it say?’

‘It says, “Run three times a week. Three miles a day first week, four miles a day ensuing weeks. Drink plenty water. See you Nov.”’

‘Four miles one way or round-trip?’

‘Round-trip. He’s too easy on his patients. Dr. Harper made grown men cry.’

See there, Hoppy had been out of here only a few days, and was already spoken of in past tense. That was retirement for you.

‘Dr. Wilson is a runner,’ she said.

‘Really? Does he follow his own prescription?’

‘He’s hard on himself, but soft on others. He does fifteen miles three times a week, sometimes twenty.’

He couldn’t take any more.

‘Are you going to retire, too?’ he asked Kennedy. She had been at the hospital clinic a hundred years; she was the one who welcomed him back when he awoke from the last coma; he was accustomed to her.

‘Heavens, no, Father, I’ll be here ’til the cows come home.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

•   •   •

T
HEY
LAY
ON
THE
STUDY
SOFA
under a couple of blankets, her feet to the south, his to the north, the fire on the hearth turning to embers.

Though he couldn’t see it rising over Little Mitford Creek, a waning moon silvered the branches of the maple, the Japanese cherry, the pickets of their fence. He raised his head for a better view of the celestial vault, wishing he could see Cassiopeia and Perseus and Camelopardalis—constellations whose names he loved pronouncing as a boy—but moonshine obscured such aloof regions.

‘I brought you flowers last Tuesday for our anniversary,’ he said, ‘but I’m due for another round.’

‘I should bring you flowers. I’ve been bossy.’

‘I’ve been . . .’ He thought about what he’d been. ‘. . . caustic.’

‘I wonder if my being bossy makes you caustic. Or did your being caustic make me bossy?’

‘All I know,’ he said, ‘is that Barnabas is downstairs and seems to like it, the checks are still rolling in to Violet, and I love you better than life.’

‘I love you back,’ she said.

‘To carry forth the full confession, I’m also sorry I fell asleep after your great dinner on Tuesday.’

‘I consider it a compliment.’

‘Falling asleep on our anniversary and not even helping with the dishes. That’s a compliment?’

‘You feel comfortable with me. I don’t think I’m a particularly comfortable person. Besides, we celebrated early in Dublin, remember?’

He grasped her foot, held it tight—so much was loose in this world. ‘Thanks for helping keep watch.’

‘If you’re sleeping down here, I’m sleeping down here. How many nights?’

‘One more, I think.’ He closed his eyes, spoke aloud their favored prayer from the Compline.

‘Before the ending of the day / Creator of the world we pray . . .’

She joined her voice with his. ‘That thou with wonted love shouldst keep . . .

‘Thy watch around us while we sleep . . .’

The prayer ended, the fire crackled and sighed.

‘Are you drifting off?’

‘Not immediately.’

‘Let’s write love letters again,’ she said. ‘Like we did when I was stuck in Manhattan all those months and we were trying to figure out what we meant to each other.’

‘Love letters are hard.’

‘But that’s what makes them good.’

On his bed by the hearth, Barnabas whimpered in his sleep, his squirrel whimper; Violet slept in the armchair.

‘How often?’ he said.

‘Twice a week?’

‘That’s way too much, Kav’na.’

‘Once a week, then. That’s absolutely the best deal I can make.’

The small rattle against the window of maple branches in a September wind. He was completely content, apt to say anything.

‘Let’s do it.’

•   •   •

P
ERHAPS
SOME
BY
-
PRODUCT
of nocturnal energy poured off celestial bodies, rained on the hapless, jangled human nerves. In any case, he couldn’t sleep.

He breathed a mantra known to pacify his nervous system—
Thank you, thank you, thank you
, again and again, and finally, onto his nightly petitions for Cynthia, Dooley, Lace, Sammy, Kenny . . . off he went, naming the legions, lingering on some blurred or precise image of each, all this followed by supplications for the Church, this country, her leaders, her enemies.

He could usually manage that much in a lateral fashion before his petitions drifted like clouds before a leeward wind. He found drifting to be the provoking nature of prayer—and there was the water tower in Holly Springs and Henry and Peggy in the house with the swept yard, and his breathing coming easier now, and he was no longer lifting up the living, but poking around in the dim chambers of those gone before.

If wakefulness persisted, as it was doing tonight, he often applied himself to the useful soporific of ‘praying the town,’ which meant going in his imagination from door to door, interceding for Mitford
families, with special intentions for the sick. If he lasted long enough, which was rare, he included the merchants, who needed all the help they could get.

It had been thoughtless to buy into Cynthia’s letter-writing scheme, as if he had nothing else to do. Though, come to think of it, he had nothing else to do, except three miles three times . . .

So if he was going to write her, where would he go for inspiration? He had used the Song of Solomon more than once, which was also more than enough, being the sticky business most people knew it to be.

Better still, if he was going to get serious about it, he needed first to answer the letter from Henry, which had arrived days ago. He considered getting up and doing it now, but if he moved, the whole sleeping arrangement would come to pieces.

O Lord, I call to you, come quickly to me, Hear my voice when I call to you. May my prayer be set before you like incense; may the lifting up of my hands be like the evening sacrifice . . .

Somewhere in the fifth verse, his mind drifted.

Camelopardalis, he was thinking as he fell asleep.

•   •   •

D
AWN
. T
HE
LIGHT
SHY
, the sun hidden; low-hanging fog.

Still in his robe and pajamas, he took his coffee mug out to the maple beyond the study window and looked toward the dark stain of mountains along the horizon.

What he needed was a new route. In the past, he’d run up Wisteria and across Church Hill Road, cut up Old Church Lane and hung a left at Fernbank, then a left on Lilac Road and a right toward Farmer. He wasn’t crazy about the Farmer leg of that run, some drivers insisted they paid taxes on both sides of the road and were determined to get their money’s worth. The road to Wesley was busier still, with
more carbon monoxide to suck into his lungs, so what to do? A parochial route; that was the ticket, though he hated having ten extra pounds flapping in the face of every Tom, Dick, and Harry on Main Street—fat was a private matter.

He’d give the parochial plan a try. If he didn’t like it, he could change it. He would cross Main and hook a right toward Farmer, then a couple of rights to the tower monument, then up Lilac, hit Church Hill, and home. Easy.

Okay. And if he had any wind left when he hit Lilac, he could keep going and run around the monument, then twice around the parking lot at town hall, then over to Church Hill and home to Wisteria.

Forgetful of the morning dew, he sat on the bench under the maple tree, exhausted just thinking about it.

•   •   •

Dear Henry . . .

The morning was close, humid; he was sweating as he hooked a right toward Farmer. Any advantage of the running he’d done in the past was long used up; he was strung tight as a mountain banjo.

Out of the Irish skillet and into the fire, it appears that C and I cannot avoid all manner of boondoggleries.

But no, he wouldn’t go into the McGraw affair, too much work composing all that drivel, and to what end?

We’re plenty glad to be back at 107 Wisteria
.
As I said when we talked, we arrived home in the middle of the night, Dooley and Lace driving us up the mountain. What I forgot to say is that I wish you could have seen our little town sleeping at two in the morning—I was especially moved by the sight of the streetlamps glimmering as if under the spell of sober thought, and the silent mountains beyond. It is cause to believe that one day, all will be well with the world.